By the end of the week, the post had over a million likes.
Tessa knew because Lana kept texting her screenshots of the growing number with captions like: *you’re legally required to wear sunglasses now, you’re too bright.*
Tessa herself tried not to check.
She failed. Occasionally. Late at night when the apartment was quiet and her brain wouldn’t shut up.
The comments, to her surprise, weren’t all terrible.
There were the expected cynics. The obligatory “PR haha” skeptics. The stans who now inexplicably called themselves “Calessa Nation” as if they were shipping a royal couple.
But there were also… others.
People who wrote things like:
*I met my husband while we were both in really bad places. We weren’t honest with each other at first. We grew. It’s okay to be messy.*
*As someone from a working‑class background dating into money, this means a lot. It’s hard. But worth it. Sending you love.*
*I love that you said survival. That’s so real. Life isn’t a Disney movie. Wishing you both the best.*
It helped. A little.
It didn’t stop the anxiety that gnawed at her whenever she walked through the mall and felt eyes on her.
“Dude, that’s her,” she overheard a teen whisper at the pretzel stand. “The mall girl from the article.”
“Bro, you’re literally in a mall,” his friend replied. “We’re all mall people.”
She both wanted to hug that friend and buy him a dictionary.
“You’re being very composed,” Lana said one evening, sprawled on Tessa’s couch, face mask on, feet on the coffee table. “I expected more… breakdowns.”
“Give it time,” Tessa said. “I’m a late bloomer.”
“You should scream into a pillow,” Lana advised. “It’s cathartic.”
“I’m more of a quiet implosion type,” Tessa said.
“A slow‑motion car crash,” Lana nodded. “On brand.”
She did scream. Once. Into her pillow, as recommended. It felt… okay. Then she cried a little. Then she put on mascara and went to work.
Life, as it stubbornly insisted on doing, kept going.
Radiance’s interim manager, Cynthia, loosened up a fraction after Denby was officially terminated. She still loved her clipboards, but she stopped acting like the break room was a war room.
“We’ve been approved for a new hire,” she told Tessa one afternoon. “Part‑time. Evenings. You interested in… moving up? Officially?”
Tessa blinked. “Up?”
“Assistant manager,” Cynthia clarified. “Leah’s been offered a promotion at another store. Corporate likes you. Numbers like you. We’d train you. Benefits. Slight raise. Formal power to write people up for eating in the stockroom.”
Tessa’s stomach twisted. “Leah’s… leaving?”
“She’ll still be in the mall,” Cynthia said. “Just… in Shoes. More commission. She deserves it.”
Tessa swallowed. “She does.”
“Think about it,” Cynthia said. “No pressure. Just… an option.”
Another option. Another branch in a life tree that was starting to look more tangled than ever.
She told Caleb over lunch the next day, huddled at a small sidewalk table near the courthouse.
“They offered you assistant manager,” he repeated. “That’s… good. Right?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s… more responsibility. More… entanglement. With the mall. With… Wardstone.”
“You say that like it’s a flu,” he said.
“It kind of is,” she muttered. “Chronic. Expensive to treat.”
He winced. “Fair.”
“Part of me… wants it,” she admitted. “The practical part. The one that sees health benefits and a steady title and the ability to pay bills without… playing credit card roulette at the end of the month.”
“And the other part?” he asked.
“The part that… still wants out,” she said. “Of… this life. Of… retail. Of feeling like every day is a variation on the same tired script. I want… more.”
He nodded slowly. “Design.”
“Maybe,” she said. “School. Classes. Taking a risk that… doesn’t come with a name on a building.”
“I want that for you,” he said quietly. “Whatever that looks like.”
“Leah said I should take it,” Tessa said. “At least for now. Build a cushion. ‘Use them the way they’d use you,’ she said.”
“She’s very… direct,” Caleb said.
“She’s not wrong,” Tessa said.
He hesitated. “Do you… want my opinion?”
“Yes,” she said. “And no. But yes.”
He took a breath. “I think… you should take it. For now. Not because I want you more tied to the company. But because you deserve… security. Options. Room to breathe.”
“That’s how it starts,” she said wryly. “First it’s ‘take the promotion,’ then it’s ‘sign this NDA and move into my penthouse.’”
He smiled faintly. “I’m not asking you to move in.”
“Yet,” she said.
He didn’t deny it. “If you take it and hate it,” he said instead, “you can… leave. You’re not… trapped. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore,” she repeated, turning the words over. “Because of you.”
“Because of you,” he corrected. “You spoke up. Naomi listened. Denby’s gone. You did that.”
“We did that,” she said.
He sighed. “I hate that I’m… part of your hesitation. That my name is on the building where your job lives.”
“I hate it too,” she admitted. “Sometimes.”
“Honest,” he said. “I appreciate it. Even when it stings.”
They fell quiet, watching the traffic.
“You know what I realized?” she said after a moment.
“What?” he asked.
“I haven’t… had a plan… for a long time,” she said. “Everything’s been… reaction. Crisis. Bills. Chemo. Denby. You. Article. I’ve just been… running from fire to fire.”
He frowned. “That’s… exhausting.”
“I’m tired,” she said simply. “And I… like you. A lot. Maybe too much. But I don’t want ‘Caleb’ to become… my plan. My… escape. I need… I need something that’s mine. That doesn’t depend on… you. Or Radiance. Or… anyone.”
“I want that for you,” he said again. “Truly.”
“So maybe…” She traced a line in the condensation on her water glass. “Maybe the assistant manager thing is… a step. Not… the destination. A way to… steady the ground while I… look around.”
He smiled, small but genuine. “That sounds… smart. Terrifying. But smart.”
“You’re biased,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “But I’m also… experienced in bad plans. This doesn’t feel like one.”
She laughed.
She told Cynthia yes the next day.
The promotion came with a tiny pay bump, a key to the office, and a name tag that said *Assistant Manager* instead of *Sales Associate.*
“Try not to let it go to your head,” Leah said, hugging her so hard she squeaked. “Power corrupts.”
“You’re the one moving up to commission heaven,” Tessa pointed out.
“Come visit,” Leah said. “I’ll get you the employee discount on sneakers so you can finally throw away those tragic ballet flats.”
“Rude,” Tessa said. “But fair.”
The first week in the new role was… chaos.
Schedules. Inventory. Corporate emails that used words like *initiative* and *alignment.* A teenage employee who kept “forgetting” to clock in.
Tessa came home each night feeling like she’d run a marathon in heels. She barely had the energy to text Caleb more than a few lines.
> Caleb: How’s Assistant Manager Morales?
> Tessa: she wants to quit and start a commune.
> Caleb: With goats?
> Tessa: you’re catching on.
They scheduled a date for Friday night. Real date. No family. No work. Just… them.
It didn’t happen.
At three that afternoon, as Tessa was in the back wrestling with a shipment of manufacturer‑sealed hell (otherwise known as those plastic clamshell packages that refused to open without drawing blood), her phone buzzed.
> Caleb: I’m so sorry. Something’s come up. Can we reschedule tonight?
Her chest dropped.
> Tessa: what happened?
> Caleb: There was a situation at one of the properties. Tenant dispute. Lawyered. I have to be there.
She pictured him in his suit, jaw tense, corporate armor snapping into place.
> Tessa: ok. go. be landlord.
> Caleb: I hate that word.
> Tessa: slumlord?
> Caleb: Very funny.
> Caleb: Rain check?
She stared at the screen. She was tired. Stressed. Realistically, this wasn’t his fault.
> Tessa: sure.
She added a smiley she didn’t feel.
The rest of the afternoon dragged. A customer knocked over an entire tray of earrings. The teenage employee went home “sick” half an hour early. Cynthia sent a reminder about corporate compliance training.
By closing, Tessa’s patience was hanging by a thread.
She locked up, rode the bus home, and let herself into her empty apartment. Lana was at Marcus’s. Ana was at bingo.
She microwaved leftover pasta, ate three bites, then pushed it away.
Her phone buzzed.
> Caleb: Still at the property. Might be late. Didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten about you.
Heat flared. Irritation. Fear. Something sharp and petty.
> Tessa: forgot what? we didn’t have plans anymore, remember?
A pause.
> Caleb: We did have plans. I had to change them. I don’t like it either.
She stabbed at the screen.
> Tessa: welcome to my world.
Three dots appeared. Vanished. Reappeared.
> Caleb: That’s not fair.
“Neither is life,” she muttered, throwing the phone onto the couch.
It buzzed again.
> Caleb: I know you’re tired. I know this sucks. I’m doing my best. Can we talk about this when I’m not standing in a stairwell with two lawyers and a tenant screaming about mold?
Guilt punched through her annoyance.
> Tessa: fine. deal with your mold.
> Caleb: Thank you.
She put the phone face‑down and turned on the TV.
It didn’t help.
By the time he called at ten‑thirty, she’d worked herself into a stew.
“Hi,” he said, voice rough. “Can you talk?”
“Clearly,” she said, feeling petty and hating it.
He exhaled. “Long night.”
“You don’t say,” she said.
“Tessa,” he said slowly. “What’s going on.”
“I’m tired,” she snapped. “And you canceled. Again.”
“I’ve only canceled once before,” he said. “In three months.”
“Once is still… once,” she said weakly. “And I’m… always the one who… rearranges. Who… understands. Who… waits.”
He was silent for a beat.
“I don’t want you to feel like you’re… waiting,” he said.
“But I am,” she said, the words tumbling out now that the dam had cracked. “For you to finish meetings. For your family to accept me. For your PR team to stop talking about me like I’m a… concept. For… us to figure out when we even… are.”
“That’s not… just me,” he said quietly. “That’s… both of us. This… situation.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m just… exhausted. And I miss you. And it feels like every time we get close to… normal, something… pulls you… away.”
He inhaled sharply. “Work is… part of my life, Tessa. I can’t… turn it off.”
“I’m not asking you to,” she said. “I’m just… scared that this is… a preview. Of… forever. Me… fitting around your calendar.”
“Is that what you think I want?” he asked, hurt threading through his voice. “A… pliant fiancée who slots into the gaps between conference calls?”
“Isn’t that what your grandmother wanted?” she shot back, instantly regretting it.
He went very quiet.
“No,” he said finally. “That’s what my *aunt* wanted. Elise wanted someone who would… challenge me. You… are doing that. Very effectively.”
She sighed, the fight draining out.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m… being unfair.”
“You’re… being honest,” he said. “Which we… asked for. Even when it… stings.”
She let her head fall back against the couch.
“I don’t want to be… your… side quest,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” he said immediately. “You’re… the main storyline. Work is… a very demanding DLC.”
Despite herself, she laughed. “Did you just compare your job to downloadable content.”
“I’ve been reading your gaming metaphors,” he said dryly. “Trying to relate.”
“Adorable,” she muttered.
“I’m not… perfect at this,” he said. “At… balancing. I’m learning. I will screw up. I will pick the wrong thing sometimes. So will you. The point is… we keep… choosing. Each other. Even when it’s… inconvenient.”
“So we’re… inconvenient now,” she said.
“We’ve been inconvenient since day one,” he said. “It’s our brand.”
Her lips twitched.
“Can I… ask for something?” he said.
“Depends,” she said. “On how much it costs.”
He huffed. “Trust me. No money can buy this.”
She went quiet. His tone had changed. Serious. Careful.
“Ask,” she said.
“Next time,” he said slowly, “if you’re… feeling like this. Like… tired. Left behind. Afraid. Could you… tell me… before it… curdles into… resentment? Send me a text. A “hey, I need more of you.” Something. So I’m not… blindsided in a stairwell.”
She winced. “Fair.”
“And I’ll…” he continued, “do better at… anticipating. At… checking in. At not assuming you’re always… fine. Just because you act like you are.”
“I don’t,” she began, then stopped. “Okay. I… do.”
He smiled, she could hear it. “A little.”
“A lot,” she corrected, sighing. “I don’t… want to be… needy.”
“You’re not needy,” he said firmly. “You’re… human. And in a very weird relationship. With a man whose job is… a second marriage.”
“That’s upsetting,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I hate that it’s true.”
Silence stretched.
“I don’t want to be… second,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” he said. “You’re… first. Which is why… we’re having this conversation instead of me answering three more emails.”
“My competition is Microsoft Outlook,” she said sadly.
“You’re winning,” he replied.
She laughed, weaker this time but real.
“Okay,” she said. “I… hear you. I’ll… try to… say ‘hey, I need more of you’ next time instead of… subtweeting you in texts.”
“Good,” he said. “Your subtweets are brutal.”
“They’re accurate,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “That’s what makes them brutal.”
They talked a bit longer. About nothing. About everything. About the weirdness of her stepping into management. About the weirdness of him feeling jealous of her time now that she had more responsibilities too.
“Is this what… real couples do?” she asked at one point. “Fight about… calendars and… feelings.”
“I think so,” he said. “My parents have been arguing about vacation destinations for twenty‑nine years.”
“And they’re still… married,” she said.
“Very,” he said. “Annoyingly so.”
“At least we don’t have to agree on beaches yet,” she said.
“Baby steps,” he agreed.
When she hung up, she felt… wrung out. But lighter.
They were starting to see the fault lines. Name them. Patch them. Maybe not perfectly. But at least… together.
She fell asleep that night with her phone on her chest and the faint soreness of a bruised but beating heart.
***